Wiping the slate
by CupcakeGangsta
Summary: What if Anderson knew about our heroes' planned revolution earlier than in the books? What if he decided to end it before it even begun and make sure nothing like this ever happens again, by fixing what went wrong with his son the first time? What he had an Unnatural with a very convenient power? Or, Warner wakes up in a bed and realizes he's shorter and is missing a few scars.
1. Chapter 1

I wake up in a bed.

I don't remember how I got into this bed.

My hand fly to my right shoulder in a moment of panic. But no, it's healed. I'm not back in the hospital bed. The last few weeks hasn't been a dream. I haven't been drugged out of my mind again.

Or was I?

I sit up and look around the room. Again, I remark that it isn't a hospital room. It's large with lavished decor. A thick oriental rug peeks out from underneath the bed to protect the feet from the cold, polished floor boards in the mornings. The walls are covered in, what I can only guess to be, handmade tapestries. All the furniture match.

It's like a set. It makes me think of a doll house.

It all looks like an expensive box of dark chocolate. Brown, black, orange, a touch of white here and there.

There are no curtains. Because there are no windows.

But there is a door.

I have never been in this room. And as far as I can remember, which isn't much, I did not come here by my own free will.

Considering that we declared war on the Reestablishment yesterday this most likely has something to do with my father. Perhaps he had me collected. Just like he had Juliette that time on the battlefield.

I was actually expecting this, so I'm not too panicked. Besides, I have one or at most, two days until he arrives. Unless they have already moved me. That might prove to be more problematic...

Before I get out the bed I take a moment to reach out with my power. I can't feel anyone prominent nearby. Which means Juliette isn't _here_. Which isn't necessarily a good thing. But I also know she'll be able to take care of herself.

First thing I do is to take the chair standing in the corner, surely meant for the inhabitant to leave their clothes on, and put it against the door as a blockade.

Not my best work. But it will have to do until I have investigated the room further.

Other than the chair there is a walk in closet, and a smaller wardrobe. I look through the wardrobe first. There's socks. And underwear. Male underwear.

But not my size.

They're too small.

I'm confused. If this is an abduction, surely they would have gotten clothes my size…

As I look up from the drawer I'm met by my reflection in the mirror above the wardrobe. I can't say why, but something is _very_ off.

Either this wardrobe his very tall together with the ceiling. Or it's my height. It's too short.

But that's not the end of my observations.

My face...

The longer I look the more certain I become.

It's too… _round_. The sharp lines that I've come to know as my chin and cheekbones have been replaced by curved arches.

I put my hand on my cheek. Drag my thumb cross the line of my jaw.

I don't have stubble. Only soft hairs that are too light too even notice. Normally that would have given me an estimated time on how long it had been since I was taken captive.

A suspicion arises in my mind.

I look down. Think for a moment.  
And pull up my shirt to reveal the soft skin of my stomach. Then I quickly unzip my pants and pull at the fabric covering my skin.

I'm stunned at the sight.

My tattoo is gone.

A cold feeling settles at the bottom of my stomach.

I take a step back to get a better view of myself, but it's positioned too high up.

I go to the closet, and sure enough, there's a full body mirror on the inside of the door. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't have waited to investigate whatever closet my captor would have provided for me, but right now I only have eyes for my reflection.

For a few moments I'm just blinking at myself. Then slowly I lift my hand to my arm and pinch myself. Hard.

And it hurts.

So no, I'm not dreaming.

I look like when I was younger.

I zip my pants, then carefully pull off my shirt over my head. Then I turn around. I crane my neck to look over my shoulder.

And as I do I can feel the hairs on my neck rise.

And now I feel like vomiting.

There's fewer of them. The crisscrossed scars on my back. I don't have to count them.

There's only six of them now. Seven of them are gone.

That means I have somehow gone back to what I was before my twelfth birthday.

I inhale deeply to steady myself against the urge to throw up. I let out the air in small shots of air. I count them.

Twenty. Inhale.

Seventeen. Inhale.

Thirteen. Inhale.

Eight.

Longer and longer until I can empty my lungs with three. It takes several minutes. I cannot afford to have a panic attack now.

But what to do?

I won't get any answers by staying here, that's for certain. I grab my shirt off the ground and shrug it on, not bothering to button it. Then I remove the chair from the door and push down the handle.

I should have been concerned by the door not being locked.

I'm immediately meet by a pair of very startled eyes. I recognize him; but he's not one of my soldiers. The lines on his forearms tell me that much.

It's one of my father's private guards. And I'm fairly certain it's the same one that was sent to invite me to dinner with father just a few weeks ago. Those dead fish eyes.

We stare at each other for a second, because both of us are just as surprised to see the other.

He is the one who makes the first move.

He lunges forward and grabs me by the upper arm. Of course I try to shake him off me. And when it doesn't work - because I am less than half my ordinary weight and he's somewhere around two hundred pounds - I do my best to maintain my dignity and let myself be escorted down the hallway.

Under normal circumstances I would have reminded him that he wasn't permitted to touch me.

Or actually, I would have shot him _before_ reminding him; but since I'm a traitor I have been retrieved all benefits my rank had given me.

It's the smell that alerts me of my whereabouts first.

It's not just to smell of aristocrats. _That_ lingers in every sitting room on this base.

On every base on this continent really.

This is the smell that would fill me with immense dread as a child. The one that still sends me into a slightly dazed and disoriented state whenever I inhale it without being prepared.

The smell of alcohol.

And not just any alcohol.

Beer: That's nothing. Wine: I used to actually find kind of sophisticated, because _he_ didn't like it very much.

This. This smell that is subtle enough as not to disturb the ordinary person. Ingrained in the wallpaper after many, many evenings being poured into large stubby glasses.

It smells like fire smoke.

Like gasoline.

Heavy alcohol.

These are my father's private quarters.

And I don't even have time to process it before the guard pulls me into a room, and what I see makes me dig my heels into the carpet. My heart flying up my throat.

 _~  
I thought I had more time.  
~_

He's sitting in an armchair with his back towards the door. He's busy reading something, so he hasn't noticed us yet. He's holding a glass in the other hand. A gold liquid swirling inside it.

The guard walks straight up to the chair with me in an involuntary tow, then stands at attention at the appropriate distance.

"Sir", is all he says.

He doesn't look up at once. He's busy reading. He doesn't like being interrupted.

I stand very, very still.

There is a voice from my childhood reassuring me that if I just stay still and he doesn't find me, if he doesn't see me, he'll forget about me, and I'll be safe.

He finishes his reading too quickly, and then he looks up at us. His blue eyes find me immediately though. At first he's a little surprised, not really sure what he's looking at. Then his face erupts in a smile that is too delighted. Too pleased. He waves for the guard who releases the hold of my arm.

He drops the report on the side table, they're completely forgotten now - the glass he sets down being more mindful however - and he shifts in his chair. More forward. More engaged in the conversation; like a businessman who's caught a great deal.

And within arm's length of me.

Still, he's only looking at me. Up and down. Left and right. He is astonished. And suddenly I'm very aware of the fact that I forgot to button my shirt.

The thin cotton shirt wouldn't provide much protection even if I had, but displaying the soft flesh of my stomach like this is unnerving.

Then suddenly he takes my chin into his hand, his thumb brushing a small circle on my cheek, feeling it, while saying, as if to himself:  
"My God…"

Then a chuckle.

"You are _adorable_!"

Snapping out of my shock I slap away his hand.

"Do not _patronize_ me!", I shout. Though it doesn't come out as forceful as I had imagined. I was nowhere near puberty at eleven and my voice is two octaves higher than I can recall. It's a shrill, annoying _noise_ coming out of my throat.

The guard standing next to me tenses, but my father only laughs.

"Still a little riled up, are we?", he wonders.

I blink.

 _Riled up_.

The way he says it. _Riled up_ like a child who woke up too early from their nap.

But I stay collected, or as much as I can be. At least I have a concret question I need answers to.

"What have you've done to me?", I ask.

"Take a guess, son", he tells me as he rests his chin against his hand prompted up on the armrest.

I'm not surprise. He has always loved making me think for myself, to then correct it since I always managed to get the answer wrong.

"I'm eleven again", I say.

"Really?", he asks, tilting his head. That smile again. Like I'm a cute little puppy. Not that he was ever a puppy person.

Though he isn't being sarcastic.

He squints a little at my open shirt. Thinks for a moment, then the small crease on his forehead disappears. I don't need to read his emotions to know that he's making the connection with my scars.

"How?!", I ask.

"Mhm?", he hums, his thoughts elsewhere.

" _How did you do this…?!"_ , I elaborate, suddenly impatient.

" _My body"_ , I raise my voice,"has been brought back _several years_ against my will. I want to know what you did! We don't have the technology to accomplish anything like this and… and…" I start trailing as I rant, realizing it myself.

It's fairly obvious when you think about it.

He had said they're were more of them. Castle had said something similar, albeit more positively to their existence.

Omega Point had hosted hundreds, and it wasn't hard to imagine that they were several thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands, spread around the globe.

And my father who has been aware of them for a _long_ time is bound to have found some of his own.

"You've used an _Unnatural_ **,** haven't you?"

"Clever boy", he commends me. Sounding like a dog owner whose pet managed to perform a neat little trick.

"Who?", I wonder.

"No one you'll ever have the pleasure of meeting, son", he replies.

And as if _he's_ the one to read my mind he adds:  
"And besides, there hasn't been any documentation about reversing the ability. Only that they've managed to stop the aging of the people around them for years, which is why they arouse suspicion in the first place."

"All _you_ need to know is that it was done by injecting some _very_ concentrated liquid harnessed from the _Unnatural's_ body into your bloodstream."

Then he tilts his head.

"We weren't sure about the exact dosage to use, though our estimation seem to have been very close to what we aimed for", he says eyeing me up and down again.

My response is to cross my arms over my chest.

The fact that he just admitted that they've used me as an unwilling test subject for this ability doesn't help my attempt at trying to keep this civil. Or as civil as it already is.

"We can have you x-rayed to pinpoint your age even more", he continues - not taking note of my more defensive stance - giving my arm a look.  
"It would give or take a few months. It was in September you broke it, right?"

I'm tempted to laugh. Because I know I was in no shape or form responsible for that broken radius.

"Have to make sure you won't have to redo it?", I ask him.

I can still remember the noise of the bone in my arm snapping under his hands. It almost haunts me more than the following fourteen nights that I had to spend in the forest without any pain killers. Or a splint.

 _Almost._

He smiles now. A legitimate smile.

"No", he says.  
"There won't be any need for that anymore."

Now I'm actually confused. He's making it sound like as if he _isn't_ going to maim and torture me. Perhaps he wants to be more simple for a change. Though it's unlike him.

"So straight to execution then?", I ask. That would make sense. Sort of. The reason for why I am a child. Killing children is always a certain way to scare the civilians into submission. Perhaps he is going to put me on display. Pierce my head with a spear and put it above the gate to the castle.

Make an example.

He looks amused. Still, he pretends to be shocked. Aghast even.

" _Execution?_ ", he repeats.

He straightens a little in his seat as he says it.

"Aaron, I know you've been quite naughty causing such a ruckus, having me come here twice in one month, but let's not go overboard!", he says, then he laughs. As if it was all some kind of joke.

"What do you mean?", I ask.

"Well...", he starts, leaning back into the chair again, his fingers knitting themselves together on his stomach.

He huffs a little.

"There obviously have to be some kind of consequences for this _little stunt..._ ", he starts.

"So I've decided that for the next few weeks you are going to be grounded and given an early bedtime. And that goes for the base", he says and twirls a hand in the air to indicate the area. He redirects it to point at the floor as he continues.

"If you abuse it it will shrink to these quarters. No running around the compound seeing your little friends. If you're good I might let you watch a movie in the evening, but I'm going to leave your books alone; don't want you getting too restless, do we?"

He counts them up in a neat little list. As if he has thoroughly thought through this punishment of mine, weighed the pros and cons of his parenting techniques.

I'm shaking in barely contained wrath when he's finished.

" _Grounded…!?_ "

"You plan to treat me like _a child_ …?!", I demand.

"Yes, yes I am Aaron. Do you have any objections?", he asks.

Oh, if I do…!

"You do realize my ' _ruckus'_ , as you call it, was an uprising against _your_ corrupt regime. And now you, _you!",_ I say and point at him in anger,"who has drilled into my head about what happens to traitors my whole life. _You_ who kill entire families over trivial crimes; tortures men until they ask for death; are saying I'm being _grounded?!"_

He looks at me indifferently. Scoffs.

"I wouldn't consider a little boy throwing a tantrum for attention ' _an uprising'_ , son."

I lose it at that.

"YOU'RE A BLOODY HYPOCRITE AND YOU KNOW IT!", I yell.

I _yell_.

And without warning, or by conscious decision

I

stomp

my

foot.

Like a

 **GODDAMN**

five year old.

I'm not the only one to make this observation it seems.

"I think _someone_ is in need of some more _cool-off_ time...", my father tuts as he shares a glance with the guard, all the while I'm seething between my teeth trying to rebuild the walls in my mind. Though they seem to have been demolished to dust.

"To his room, sir?", the guard asks.

"Yes", my father says glancing at his expensive wristwatch. He clicks his tongue.  
"There's still a few hours until dinner. Let's see if he remembers how to behave by then."

"I…!", I start, but I'm interrupted by the guard taking my arm again.

I struggle. Of course.

"Hey!", I protest.

"I'm not finished!"

I look at father, but he's focusing on his reports again. His glass once again resting in his palm.

I can see a condensed water droplet making its' way towards his hand. It's catching the light.

It's almost reminiscent.

And I remember something else.

"W-wait!", I say. And in desperation I grab onto the back of his chair. The small jerk from the force between the guard's hold and my hand on the chair makes my father look up.

"' _My little friends_ '", I quote him.  
"You said _my little friends_ ", I urge.

"Where are they?"

He raises his eyebrows and we both know there's a more important question between us.

My heart skips a beat.

How could I forget to ask?!

I can't stop the stammer as I ask:

"What have you've done to her?"

"Oh", he says.

He smiles. So very content with himself.

He raises the glass towards his lips, holds it right before his mouth for a moment before he sips on it. Then he sighs, licking his lips for any excess, the flavor filling him with extreme delight.

I realize too late it's a victory toast to himself and my guts fill with ice as cold as the cubes clinking around in the amber liquid.

He looks at me lowering the glass, still smiling.

"She's been taken care of."


	2. Chapter 2

**So, I'm in university now, and you know what I do during boring lectures?**

 **Think about Fanfics I want to write.  
Especially about our boi Aaron Warner and his wonderful Daddy issues.**

 **And what to I do to reward myself when I've figured out an annoying integral?**

 **Write a few sentences before I realize I have physics to study as well TTuTT**

 **It's a slow process, but I've actually managed to map out a few things I want to do with this.**

 **Which includes bringing Adam and James into this mess.**

* * *

I'm sitting in the closet.

I'm sitting in the closet thinking that it will prolong dinner with my father.

It's dark. And disappointingly small.

Out of all the scenarios I have been trained for I stand hand fallen before my current predicament.

I am eleven again.

I am tiny and lanky and hiding in a closet without a lock.

I wish that was a sentence I had made up.

But does anything of that even matter? The impossible has happened. Juliette.

My one saving grace after such a long time in this personal hell that is my life.

Is gone.

And even if I had had the forethought to even consider that she wasn't actually unstoppable, not immortal and the solution to all my problems I would have figured that I, too, at least would be dead at this point.

Which again brings me to the current situation.

My father; _calculative dictator of what used to be the continent of North America; executor of families, cities, countries; abusive father and husband;_ seem to want to play house with me.

And I can't understand why.

My thoughts are interrupted as someone knocks on the door.

I listen as they try to push down the door handle, then rattling it, in case it was the mechanism that was acting up. After a pause a gentle thud follows, as the person on the other side is putting their shoulder against the wood.

My chair doesn't budge though.

It stops for a moment. Then, another knock, followed by the muffled voice of my father.

" _Aaron?"_ A pause. " _Dinner."_

I do not move. I just sit there in the dark with the bottom of a blazer draping over the top of my head.

Father seems to realize that I'm not making my way to the door.

" _Aaron, open the door please."_

The silly part of my mind returns. It believes that if I just don't reply he'll think I'm not here. That eventually, he'll go away.

Obviously it doesn't work.

" _Aaron, I am going to give you one minute to open this door._ "

I remain where I am. After all, I don't have anything to lose by disobeying.

Five minutes go by, and from within the closet I can hear how the lock is being rattled again. This time in intervals.

At first I'm confused, figuring they would have kicked down the door. Turns out I was thinking too dramatically.

They were just taking the lock apart.

Sadly my chair barricade relies on the presence of a door knob, and as soon as the mechanism hits the floor I can hear the door bump into the chair as it opens; followed by someone stepping into the room.

My ability reads my father's mood. He's impatient with my behaviour. But also a little amused.

I startle as a knock sounds right next to my head. It makes the clothing hangers scramble, revealing my already flimsy hiding place.

The door is pulled open and I am momentarily blinded by the sudden light pouring into the small space.

"Hi there", he says.

"How is Daddy's favorite rebel doing?"

My nose wrinkles ever so slightly in distaste.

 _Daddy?_

I don't know how many years it has been since anyone referred to him by that name. Even as a joke.

He doesn't seem to matter the lack of a reply. Instead he briefly looks back over his shoulder.

"Nice move with the chair", he comments.

He turns back to me. I look down to avoid having to look at him.

"Are you done sulking and ready to have some dinner?"

"I'm not hungry", I lie.

Once again I'm surprised by the sound of my voice. Small and whiny.

I detest it.

"Don't be silly Aaron. You haven't eaten since yesterday", he says.

He's offers me a hand. Beckons me with a flick of the fingers.

I ignore it.

He sighs, unsurprised, then his hand is around my arm and he's firmly pulling me up from my sitting position on the floor and out of the closet.

I almost stumble, but I manage to adjust my balance against his hold on my elbow.

That's when I look up and is once more struck with an unnerving feeling in the pit of my stomach.

My father is undoubtedly the same size as always and I have, at least since the age of sixteen, been able to look him in the eye from with a margin of only a few inches. But now...

I'm somewhere in between 4'5 and 5 feet.

And my father is towering over me in a way I cannot recall.

I do not have much time to ponder over this, however, as he ushers me out of the room.

The dining room is the same room where I last had dinner with my father. Back when I had a gunshot wound in my shoulder.

Back when I still did not know that the reason I could touch Juliette was due to a supernatural ability.

The table is set and ready. Someone has covered the plates with lids to keep the food warm.

"Sit down at the table", he tells me as he brushes past me and starts uncovering the food.

Despite my best efforts my mouth does start to water at the smell.

Still, I glance at the door we just came through.

One of his guards, seemingly appeared out of nowhere, meets my gaze.

I turn back and take my seat. I try not to think of it as begrudgingly. Only children do that...

My father does not waste any time to start loading his plate with food, and as soon as he is done he puts food on my plate as well; not leaving me any room to protest the amount.

"Eat up", he tells me, then digs into his own meal.

I do not touch the food.

"Where are they?", I ask.

He looks up. Still chewing. He raises his eyebrows in unconcerned confusion.

"You never answered where the Unnaturals from Omegapoint are", I say.

He rolls his eyes then.

"Because I assume they're not dead, with the tense you were using", I persist.

He just continues to chew, unimpressed, and nods at my plate.

 _Eat up_ , he had told me.

That spark of emotion from before returns full force. I suddenly want to stand up and yell at him. Demand things. Overturn things. Go back to my closet and sulk in the dark because what reason is there for me to be here unless he will answer my questions?!

Anything but to _eat my food_ like a child-

It hits me like a brick to the back of the head.

 _Oh the irony._

The roles have been reversed now.

Juliette and I.

Now it's me and my father.

All those breakfasts, luncheons, dinners. Her glaring at her plate, me scolding her for refusing to eat. Alternating between humor and frustration at her behavior.

She needed the strength and nutrition to grow stronger after being starved for almost a year. And she refused because it was the only thing she _could_ do to strike my nerves.

I could do the same. To disobey my father. Just for the _heck_ of it. After all, there is nothing he can do. I have nothing to lose. Not really.

But I'm not Juliette.

I'm not a stubborn brat, an actual child, like her.

Because, as much as it hurts my pride to admit it: My father is right. I need to eat.

And if I want answers to my questions, this is what I have to do.

So, I grab my fork and pierce something that looks like sweet potato. I shove it into my mouth and start chewing.

It's sweet. It makes my stomach scream for more.

I can tell he is surprised by my obedience. And also pleased in a smug way I have learned to know.

It swiftly disappears, however, as I swallow and repeat:  
"Where are the Omegapointers?"

"They are being contained."

"That is not what I asked. Where?"

"That is _classified_ , son", he replies.

I can't say I'm surprised by this answer.

"What do you plan to do with them?"

His mood gains a taint of suspicion then. But all he does is give my plate another nod as he continues to eat his food.

Again, that feeling resurfaces, but I push it down; and consume more potatoes.

He takes longer to answer me this time, and I even start on my meat just to fill the time.

"We haven't actually decided yet. But whatever we come up with it's going to be rather interesting, I think. They make quite an exquisite collection of abilities, don't they?"  
"It's too bad there were so few useful ones that survived", he ponders.

 _Maybe you shouldn't have bombed them, then_ , I think as my hands clench around my utensils.

" _We?_ ", I say.

"The Supremes."

"So they are in on this as well?", I ask.

"Oh yes", he says.  
"And they are all very curious about you."

I do not ask anything else, and dinner continues in silence.

"Excellent", he says as I finish the last bits of foods and set down my fork and knife.

"Do you want any more?", he asks gesturing towards the serving plates.

"No", I reply.

He nods.

"Then you may return to your room and prepare for bed."

I blink. Glance at the antique clock on the mantelpiece. It's just past seven in the evening.

"You can't be serious", I say.

"I told you, Aaron", he says as he wipes his mouth with his napkin, as if explaining something very simple.

"Part of your punishment is an early bedtime. Now go put on your PJ:s. I'll be there in ten to make sure you've brushed your teeth."

I can't tell if that is meant to be a threat, a fact or an attempt at a joke. But I also know that I he won't answer any more of questions even if I attempt to refuse.

So, I stand up, leaving my chair pushed out, and walk to my room.

* * *

My father arrives, as promised, in the doorway twelve minutes later.

I am already sitting in bed. I have no actual plans of sleeping, but the image of my father forcefully tucking me in if I refused was too real of a possibility.

Or, I _had_ no plans of sleeping, but now my eyelids are suddenly feeling heavy. And the warmth that is slowly being created beneath the covers is becoming more and more inviting.

And this bed is very soft...

I yawn, despite my best efforts to suppress it.

I can feel his amusement like a ripple across his mood as he approaches the bed.

I attempt a serious glare, but it only seems to make him think I'm more adorable.

"Did you put something in my food?", I ask. It was illogical for me to be so tired after sleeping for an entire day; as my father had claimed. It would explain why he was so keen on me eating so much.

"No, actually...", he says, making no attempt to hide that it was a plausible idea.

Then he furrows his brow as he sits down on the bed.

"Are you not feeling alright?"

It's a strange question. Not only due to the fact that I have been deaged against my will, making me feel anything but ' _alright'_ ; but also due to it coming out of the mouth of my father. He, who has never cared about my wellbeing; and specifically gone out of his way to physically, and mentally, abuse me.

Then suddenly the back of his hand is on my forehead.

I am so surprised I back my head into the headboard.

"It could be the vaccines…", he muses.

"What?", I demand as my brain catches up with the information.  
"I've been vaccinated?", I add as I bat away his hand.

"Yes", he answers plainly.

And once more he is amused by my reaction.

 _"Against what?"_

He shrugs.

"Oh, I don't really know. You were injected with lots of things."

I shouldn't be surprised by the fact that things keep happening to my body without my consent, yet, I still feel majorly offended. Not that it would have made much difference, with the UN having been dissolved years ago.

So, I settle for what I can do: I glare at him.

"Please, Aaron, surely you understand. There wouldn't be much of a point to spend all those resources on reversing your age for you to die from the common cold after five minutes."

My confused look must have spoken for itself.

"Your immune system isn't up to date anymore son. Or, at least that is the hypothesis. Evie is going to run some tests just to be sure."

Evie.

It takes a moment for me to recognize the name of the Supreme commander of Oceania.

And at the same time I realize what I used to assume was a quirk for science and empirical testing has probably always been the source of my father's knowledge of the Unnaturals.

I feel a chill run down my spine.

' _It's too bad there were so few useful ones that survived'_

Useful.

A tool to use.

I had been the one to suggest using Juliette's ability as a tool for the Reestablishment, but clearly my father have known about the Unnaturals far longer than I have. And it's impossible that the same thought has not crossed his mind as well.

The reason my father has gone out of his way to keep me alive, could it be… because he _knows_?

I can't resist the shift I make backwards.

Luckily he interprets this as me being uncomfortable with the topic at hand.

"Oh, don't worry Aaron. We've already taken the blood samples", he says, as if to calm me.

Then he leans forward. Leans towards me; and I don't understand at first, because he's just getting closer and closer until the last moment when he tilts his head and-

"Goodnight!"

\- he kisses me.

On the cheek.

It's wet. And his stubble prickles the skin on my cheek.

It would have been a perfect opportunity to elbow him in the face. Perhaps surprise him enough to be able to take the gun that is surely hidden on his body. Or just make him mad.  
It would surely have been worth it either way.

Instead I'm too stunned to do _anything_.

He chuckles at my wide eyed expression. Then stands to leave.

"Try to actually get some sleep", he says and walks out, momentarily looking back over his shoulder before shutting off the light with the switch by the doorway. He shuts the door behind him, leaving me alone in the dark.

With the small amount of dignity I still have left I wipe my cheek with my sleeve.

I can't remember my father ever kissing me before.

\- It was not like I had imagined it to be; back when I still had hopes for my father to show me he loved me.-

And without permission my eyes water.

I wipe at them, more aggressively this time and lie down to start planning what to do tomorrow.

I do not get much done, except establish the fact that I want to know where the Omegapointers are being kept. And hopefully they haven't already changed the password to my quarters where my computer, hopefully, still is.

Instead I think of signs that my father would in fact have known of my ability. For how long? Perhaps for my entire life. It would certainly explain why I was here.

Still, what was he hoping to accomplish with me being eleven.

Sure, I was more controllable in this state. Light weight and apparently more prone to emotions. But rendering me paralyzed or otherwise immobile would have worked the same, if not better, if my father wanted to use my power for his own gain.

I don't have that much time to think about this, however, before I fall asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**I just want to say Thank you for the reviews! It really makes it more fun to write knowing there's someone who actually wants to read it!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

When I wake up I momentarily don't recognize the room where I fell asleep, and so I startle myself wide awake as soon as I open my eyes. It does not become better when I see my hand laying next to my head on the pillow, now small and unblemished from my time on the battlefield, and realize that the happenings of yesterday was not a dream. And still isn't.

I do not waste any time to dwell over this, however. I have an objective.

In minutes I am dressed. Slacks. A button down. Shoes that are a size too big, but I put them on. There's no reason for me to catch tetanus from stepping on debris the soldiers bring in under their boots.

I head straight for the door leading out of my father's private quarters. I don't know what time it is yet, but I can deduce that it is still early morning judging by the light coming in through the windows.

I find it strange that I slept for this long, and once more I question whether my father did put something in my food last night.

I make it to the door leading to the rest of the base without passing anyone, which I should find strange, but I don't think about it until I reach for the door knob

and it opens.

Father almost walks into me, and I reverse my steps to retreat back into the hall.

"Oh!", he exclaims. He's surprised. And is wearing a wife beater tank top, as well as gym shorts. He smells of sweat. He had a towel slung over his shoulders.

It does not take a genius to understand that he has been working out.

He quickly shakes off the small element of surprise and smiles at me. That smile; like he's looking at the cute puppy he's brought home. The constant scowl I wore all of yesterday replants itself between my eyebrows.

"You're up already?", he asks as he steps inside.

Two of his guards follow. One stepping around him to enter the quarters while the other remains by father's flank.

"I went to sleep at half past seven yesterday evening. How many hours did you expect me to sleep?", I deadpan.

He considers it, then shrugs. Wipes at his forehead with the towel around his neck.

"Were you going somewhere?", he asks.

I try not to hesitate, but it still takes a beat for me to answer.

"Yes", I say.

He doesn't remain in the door, though. Instead he steps around me and heads towards his rooms. This confuses me.

"Have you eaten yet?", he asks.

I blink.

"No."

He looks over his shoulder.

"So you won't have breakfast before you go?", he asks.

"No...", I say.

He's amused at my confusion. My uncertainty at answering his innocent questions.

He holds me with his gaze for a moment too long to be completely innocent, however, but when he finally looks away all he says is:

"Just don't run around bothering anyone", and he walks off, presumably to shower before he himself has breakfast.

I take it as my queue to leave.

* * *

I try to make my way to my quarters as swift as possible, but refrain from sprinting. There is no reason to attract more attention than I already am.

To the soldiers charging, it wasn't every day you saw a well dressed, well fed child walk through the halls of headquarters. It wasn't every day you saw one of those anywhere.

Quite a few head turned as I marched past groups of soldiers lingering in the hallways, but no one bothered to address me.

Which I have to admit felt strange.

No salutes. Not as much as a straightened posture.

They were focused on other things.

Whispering.

My soldiers had, by extension, commited treason alongside with me. But they were still soldiers. And as many soldiers my father had at his own disposal you didn't switch out an entire base all willy nilly. There were still tasks to perform. This base was still the main organ of sector 45, and its base functions were still required; even if the sector was in the smoldering remnants of a failed uprising.

My father was undoubtedly to rehabilitate my soldiers. And remove anyone who remained rebellious.

The fact that they do not pay attention to me doesn't bother me, however. I do not know what I would answer to their questions.

That I am some unknown younger brother of their commander? A cousin might be more plausible, however. At the very least they wouldn't question the uncanny resemblance.

I reach my quarters and realize my first problem:

I don't have my keycard.

A surmountable obstacle. I lift my hand to punch in the backup code. The tip of my index finger hovers slightly above it. And at first I don't understand. Then I realize it.

I don't remember the code to my own quarters.

 _Think, you idiot_! I tell myself. But it's like staring at a blank page.

In a moment of imagined intellect I lean down and try to distinguish any fingerprints. Because _maybe_ seeing which numbers that were used would jog my memory.

I stand there bent over, trying to catch the light at a better angle, for too many seconds before admitting to myself that there is nothing to be seen. The buttons are clean. As if wiped.

 _Of course there were no markings! I have been wearing gloves for the last two months._

Realizing my own idiocy I curse under my breath. But I have enough self composure to not kick my door.

I take a moment to think. The cleaners are due in a few hours. There must be a way for me to get inside during their rounds.

Unless my father has already dismissed that service.

Still, there are bound to be key cards that are still active to my quarters.

So I turn on my heel and go back the way I came from.

I head towards the staff quarters. Or, what I think is towards the staff quarters.

It's when I reach a crossroad of four corridors that I come to a halt. I look left. I look right. I look forward.

After a too long beat I even look back the way I came from.

I notice how I am chewing my lip.

 _This can't be happening…_ I insist.

"Excuse me?"

I whip around so fast I am surprised I don't get whiplash.

Delalieu has just come around the corner of one corridor. And I don't think I've been happier to see the old man.

"Delalieu!", I say.

He blinks. Confused that I, this random lost looking child, know his name. Then all the color is drained from his face.

His hand flies up to feebly support his balance against the wall and for a second I'm worried I have given him a stroke.

" _S-sir?_ ", he stammers.

"Yes, it is me", I confirm despite the recognition that grows as his eyes dart up and down my frame.

"Now, I need you to open my office door."

"Pardon?", he says.

"Your keycard still unlocks my quarters, or am I mistaken?", I say and make a hither motion towards my office.

I'm pretty sure Delalieu stumbles a little as he follows me.

"Sir? _Sir…!_ "

"Lieutenant?", I reply, pretending to not understand the concern in his voice.

"The Supreme…", he starts but falters.

"If you are worried about my father I can inform you that he showed no interest in where I went. He probably already know that I am here considering that it would incredibly naïve to think I wouldn't come here. Now unlock this door!"

I turn and he is still just staring at me. And I suddenly feel bad for snapping.

"Please", I add.

He blows air through his moustache, but fumbles around his pockets before pulling out the white card.

I am tearing the door open the moment Delalieu taps it against the device and I hear the click of the mechanism.

First thing I notice is that they have stripped my bed. It just the white mattress left.

Now, I do not hold much sentimentality for my bed linen. However, it makes me ponder the state of my closet. Nothing in there would fit me in my current state; except for the scarfs.

Out of curiosity I walk up to the wall, push the button as many times before and look inside. I am relieved to see that it is untouched, but I withdraw as quickly as I entered. _I have an objective._

I haven't stepped four steps before Delalieu calls out for me again.

 _Is he still here?_ , I ask myself.

" _Sir_."

"I'm do not require further of your assistance, lieutenant, you may return to your duties", I say as I head towards my office.

He follows me.

"Sir, you don't actually have pe-permission to enter these quarters anymore… much less remain h-here unattended..."

I turn and look at him.

He gathers his courage.

"You're not commander of th-this sector anymore. Therefore I-I cannot leave you alone i-in this room."

"Yet you still call me _Sir_ ", I point out.

It wasn't meant to appraise him, but I am met with a wave of discomfort and shame from the older man.

"Any news of my successor?", I ask, referring to the title of colonel.

He shakes his head.

"N-not that I know off. Your father is the one currently o-overseeing your assignments."

"Well, you are free to stay at your leisure, lieutenant. I won't stop you", I say and turn back to what I came to do: find my computer.

They have left my office intact for some reason. The bookcase is as ready to explode as a week ago. And surely enough, my laptop is laying in the cupboard where I left it.

I bring the laptop to sit on top of the desk, activate the built in induction plate and open the lid.

As expected the facial recognition blares red in the corner of the display as soon as the terminal initiates.

It's when the password window show up that the worried feelings from before stir in my stomach.

My fingers do _not_ fly to unlock my computer.

There is a fleeting memory of a routine using primary number encryption, but which number I had picked or what word I had started of with…

 _Like a blank page_

"Sir?", Delalieu says. Again with the _Sir_.

I realize I've been staring at the screen without typing anything for too long.

"I need you to log into the database from my computer", I say.

"P-pardon?"  
"What for?", he asks.

"Because I need to access classified information. Just put in your password."

He blanches for the second time that morning.

 _Uncertainty. Guilt._ But mostly _fear_ shifts in him as he contemplates the request. His eyes meet the floor.

"I'm afraid I c-cannot do that...", he finally tells me.

" _Delalieu_ ", I start, but he interrupts me.

"No, t-that is where I d-draw the line…!"

We are both shocked at the outburst. Him more so than me.

I realize I am scowling at him. My hands are gripping the edge of my desk too tightly.

I realize I am on the edge of throwing a fit. Because my lieutenant won't sign me into a database.

I almost want to stomp my foot, just to relieve some tension.

I do not do that.

Instead I close my eyes and inhale. Exhale. _What is happening to me?_

"Forgive me...", Delalieu says quietly. He's ashamed, probably thinking he is the source of my frustration.

"No", I say as I sit down in my old office chair. It has never felt so big before.  
"I am the one who should apologize. You are only following protocol..."

I thought he would be comforted, but the lieutenant becomes more uncertain.

We are not used to this. To me admitting any wrongdoings. Much less apologizing to him.

"D-don't get me wrong, sir, I w-would love to assist you. However, I believe you do not realize that you risk making ma-matters worse for yourself…"

I actually scoff.

"In what way can it become worse than it already is?", I ask him.

He doesn't offer me a reply. Instead he just looks sad.

"I am wondering though, were you aware of... _this..._ ", I say.

He looks, if possible, _sadder_.

"When your father informed me of his p-plan of action it had already been set into motion. Not that it would have made much d-difference if I had tried to object…", he tells me.

And as insane as this scenario is I can still understand where the old man is coming from. To defy my father, even as subtle as to give a suggestion, does rarely result in anything else than death.

And as little help as the lieutenant may offer it's better than him being dead. And to be honest, I'm glad I'm not facing this completely on my own.

* * *

I tuck my computer under my arm despite Delalieu's meek attempts at making me leave it.

And despite the lack of agreement from _me_ he picks out a handful of books from my bookcase.

Once again no one addresses me as we make our way back to the Supreme wing, but the soldiers salute Delalieu as he walks past. I feel their eyes linger on me this time around, though. A fleeting feeling of recognition. But not knowing from where.

I have never noticed it, but the soldiers are not as tense with Delalieu as with me. Their posture is not as straight. Their _siryessir_ not as clipped.

My father would say it's a lack of discipline. He would have had them whipped.

Or maybe not _whipped_. That's something he reserves for his special little darlings. He would have them waterboarded or something of the like.

I think it's a lack of fear.

Most likely they think he's just a nice old man who's in a position that forces him to do unpleasant things.

Which isn't _not true._

When we reach the Supreme wing there is a guard posted outside, as per protocol.

I don't actually want to return here so soon, but there isn't much else I can do without arousing unnecessary attention. And Delalieu wouldn't leave me in my gym on my own.

"G-good day", Delalieu greets him.

"Lieutenant", the guard says and opens the door for me.

Meanwhile Delalieu turns to me to hand over the pile of books.

"Now, i-if you run out you c-can just c-come find me", he tells me. A promise of letting me into my old quarters if I want to.

Then suddenly, without warning, both Delalieu and I and ushered in through the door.

And before either of us can protest the door closes behind us and in front of us my father appears from around the corner.

"Ah, Delalieu!", father declares, as if he had been waiting for the Lieutenant. Or like they were actually old friends who hadn't seen each other in a while.

Like they weren't two men at completely different ends of my late mother.

Delalieu almost drops my books as he brings his hand up in salute.

"S-sir, Supreme Commander, sir!"

"At ease, lieutenant", my father muses; making Delalieu drop his hand.

"How are things?", he asks.

"They-they _-they_ are m-manageable, sir."

What these _they_ things are, I don't know. And it annoys me that they are discussing _something_ right in front of me. Like I am an actual child who will not catch onto the words that they are sending over my head.

"Now, if that changes you make sure to inform me so that reinforcements may be put in place."

"Yes, of course, sir Supreme Commander, s-sir..."

We both think that is the end of the conversation. That father will unhook his claws from the poor lieutenant and let him be on his way.

Instead:  
"Stay for a cup of coffee?", father asks as Delalieu hands me the books.

His hand slips and almost drops them again. I can feel the rush of fear and panic spiking through him.

"I really sh-shouldn't. I-I still have tasks to- _to_ perform, s-sir Supreme..."

"Now, _I insist_ ", father says sweetly and gestures for the sitting room.

"You still like those fig biscuits, don't you? Shavin, sent some."

He turns to me.

"Go leave those in your room then come back", he instructs me, referencing to the books. "There's some bagels in the kitchen for you. Because you haven't eaten yet have you?", he asks and nicks me under the chin as he walks past.

And I watch, helplessly, as Delalieu is guided into the belly of the beast.


	4. Chapter 4

I'm almost convinced I am dreaming again. Sadly I know I'm not. What I am sure of is that Delalieu is on the verge of having a stroke.

At least I'm in between them. The two of us are on the sofa while my father is in the armchair. I have been given a plate with a bagel. There is also a tray with the promised fig biscuits on the coffee table.

"We barely had any time to talk last time", Father remarks as one of his guards pour coffee for the two of them.

"So, have you started thinking of retiring yet?", he continues as he picks up his cup while Delalieu gives the guard a nod when he offers him cream.

I had imagined Delalieu would be discomforted by the idea of retiring. After all, he has stuck around for so long. But, to my surprise Delalieu ponders the question in contemplation rather than fear of answering incorrectly.

"Unless the next Commander wishes to have me s-stay I do agree that perhaps it is the most na-natural way to p-proceed..."

"That's good, because I might need some assistance over the foreseeable future", father says.

This time a shiver of dread sweeps through Delalieu. Still, he is able to keep a mask of conversational calm. As much as one can with my father in the proximity.

"Oh!", he says, sounding as if he might be pleasantly surprised; but is also hearing the news that he may live another day by the mercy of his son-in-law.

"Perhaps we can find you a little house by some nice lake somewhere", father muses.

Delalieu hums, entertaining the idea.

"Good luck finding one that isn't contaminated", I perk up.

When I was eleven that would have earned me a slap. Now all my father does is to scoff a little too enthusiastically before saying:  
"Eat your bagels, cheeky boy." Then he reaches over the table and takes a biscuit from the tray. Delalieu does the same. Seeing that I am the only one not masticating I oblige and start eating my bagel.

"But about the _foreseeable future_ ", my father says as he wipes his hands on his slacks, despite not having any crumbles on them, and leans forward.

"I have a surprise for you", he says in a voice bordering on sing-songed. It takes me a moment too long that he's talking to me.

A feel anticipation match my own in Delalieu. A surprise from my father could entail anything between a spontaneous play date on the other side of the globe to a box containing a live scorpion. Or inside the new set of shoes I would have been foolish enough to be excited about.

Father smiles then, suddenly excited to see my reaction. His eyes linger on me for a few seconds as if trying to capture the moment I find out whatever he's about to tell me.

"You're going to be a big brother!"

I am momentarily confused. First thing my brain concludes is that my father has found another woman now that my mother is officially dead.

It's Delalieu who triggers my memory:

He gasps.  
"Paris, h-have you really?"

It's the use of his first name that flicks a switch I forgot existed. The events of the last evening in my gym surfaces in my mind; like lost objects in deep murky water as the adults continue speaking.

 _Something about Kent._

"Of course! I couldn't see a reason why to wait."

"Even if… ", Delalieu stops himself as he glances at me.

Father continues to say something, but I tune him out. My memory is piecing itself together.

 _Kent knowing my father on a first name basis._

 _My violent reaction to it._

 _Juliette intervening._

 _How could I forget?_

"I already know that", I hear myself say.

The two of them aim their eyes at me at the same time. Father blinks, and I can't help but feel pleased at catching him off guard.

"The Kents. I know they're my half brothers", I elaborate.

Father sits back down, momentarily stunned quiet. Or, not really _stunned_. He's wondering how to proceed now that he doesn't have the complete upper hand.

"How long have you known?", father asks me, curious.

"The night before we announced the uprising."

"That's not very long", he concludes.

"Kent has known since the time I was kidnapped. Apparently he was rather spooked to see you. He was under the impression you were dead", I reply, the details presenting themselves as I speak.

Delalieu frowns at hearing this, but doesn't admonish the behavior of my father as a father-in-law undoubtedly would have, had the circumstances been normal. Considering his reaction he has probably been aware of the Kents relation to me before this. Which I hate to admit stings a little.

Father, on the other hand, just sighs.

"Yeah, that was a bit of a miss. I didn't expect that the Omega Pointers would allow him to join them in the field so soon", he tells me.  
"But it shouldn't have been that surprising, really; considering how easily that fool Castle is to trust whatever stray that comes walking by."

"How old have you've made them?", I ask him before I lose the opportunity to ask questions. I'm at least expecting him to have done something with Kent. James on the other hand, he might have left alone.

Delalieu chokes a little on his coffee he has returned to. He obviously hadn't considered it himself.

"Aaron, let me keep something for the surprise...", Father pretends to complain.

"Speaking of which", he says and pulls up his sleeve to look at his wrist watch.  
"I need to go check on Adam", he declares as he stands up.

It takes me a moment to realize he's not preparing to go very far.

"Wait, they're _here?!_ ", I say standing up as well.

"Yes", he confirms.  
"And _you_ ", he adds,"...are going to stay here and keep Grandad company, and finish your bagels", he instructs me, giving my plate a once over. Delalieu doesn't even attempt to remind him that he still has duties he is supposed to perform.

When I don't immediately sit down father smiles again.

"You may come join us when I've made sure Adam isn't freaking out too much", he assures me.

"Assuming you behave until then", he adds. Then he leaves, disappearing down the corridor where the guest rooms are located.

"May I have coffee?", I ask about a minute of awkward silence between Delalieu and I.

Delalieu hesitates, but obliges. It's a small victory considering father would no doubt refuse me the _adult drink_.

"A-actually you might notice something about the taste", he tells me as he pours me a cup. He's obviously more relaxed now that my Father is gone.

"Your father enjoys his coffee more c-c-coarse. He has access to the full beans and can choose the level of grinding. It brings out more flavor than the ones we typically h-have in this sector…", he falters a little. Worried that I don't find this relevant.

Which it's not. But it's rare to hear Delalieu talk about anything he _enjoys_ , so I pick up my cup and whiff it. I can't tell much difference.

"How does that affect the taste?", I wonder.

"It's supposed to become less b-bitter. Rounder if you will", he tells me, making a cupping motion with his hand.

I hum, thinking I have understood the concept. I don't have the chance to tell if it is _rounder_ , however. Because as soon as my tastebuds register my mouth attempts to spit it back out.

 _It's awful!_

"Sir...!", Delalieu gasps in worry. Once again slipping my title.

I look, horrified, at the bitter, black liquid. It's not so much the actual taste than the fact that the appreciation I had developed over these last few weeks: it's as if it had never been there.

"It's fine", I finally say and take the napkin he hands me.  
" _I'm fine",_ I say when he still isn't convinced.

"Would you like to try it with cream?", Delalieu asks.

"No thank you", I say, and take another sip, trying very hard not to make a face.

* * *

It doesn't take that long before one of my father's men come into the sitting room.

"The Supreme Commander have granted you permission to join him in the guest room", he tells me.

Then he looks at Delalieu.  
"And you are dismissed, Lieutenant."

Delalieu bids me farewell before we both are escorted in opposite directions.

As I stand outside the other guest room door I am suddenly nervous. Seeing I had forgotten about being related to Kent the sudden reminder is making the feelings from that night repeat all over again. Last time however I wasn't sure how I would go about addressing the topic _. If_ I ever would. Now though, our father wants to usher us together.

If only Juliette was here. She'd surely be able to assist us in communicating our feelings.

But Juliette isn't here. And I have two half brothers to protect.

I knock on the door. There is a short pause, then I hear my father's voice.

" _Come in."_

This guest room, unlike mine, has a small sitting area in the corner. First thing I see is a brown haired boy sitting on the small sofa next to father. It's obviously Kent. He is wearing a long sleeve shirt that covers his arms, but his army tattoos are undoubtedly gone. I can't tell how old he's supposed to be. He is smaller than me now, however, and from the small bits and pieces of info I can recall he is also smaller than James was.

Kent's head whip around, and his blue eyes go wide.

"James!", he says.

I look behind me to see if the younger Kent has somehow arrived with me, but is only more confused when I see that I am, in fact, alone in the doorway.

Then I realize it: Kent thinks I'm James.

Father has already made the connection, and chuckles.

"Not quite, Adam. That's Aaron", he tells him.

"Do sit down, son", he tells me and gestures for the bed.

Kent, Adam, is not comforted by this and he watches me as I take my seat. He frowns as he tries to understand, then his eyebrows lift in horror.

" _Warner...?!_ "

I do not say anything, but my silence is answer enough for itself apparently.

"Where is he? Where's James?", he asks, to father this time.

When father doesn't answer immediately Kent suddenly grow restless. Panicked. He grabs father's arm, as if that would bring an answer out of him.

"Where is he?!", he repeats, his voice becoming more frantic.

"Oh, he's probably still sleeping", father ponders, unfaced by Kent's emotions.

Kent looks between father and I. Then it's as if something clicks. Kent's realization that he doesn't have the imagination to dream this up. He releases father's arm like it's a hot stove and he stands up. He looks at his hands. Flips them over a few times.

"What the…?", Kent whispers, horrified.

" _Adam_ ", Father says trying to coax him to come back. I can tell he isn't amused but he is still trying to display a visage of patience. He reaches out, and when Adam tries to back away father is faster and easily reels him in; placing him on top his knee.

Kent starts to cry as he tries to break out of the hold around his waist. Our father, though, is able to handle men three times Kent's size and isn't faced with the struggle in the least. Instead he hushes him.

"Adam, you were being so good before."

"Why… why are you doing this?", Kent asks.  
"What do you want?! Please, let us go. We won't bother you, I promise. We'll go somewhere far, far away. I-I'll do anything, please." Kent is blubbering while shaking his head.

His words awake something inside me my brain. Bits and snippets I don't understand flash before my eyes. The fear of leaving my mother. Flying, blindfolded. The dim light filtering through the water of a tank. Lined up bombers ready to take off from the base. Me on my knees; my father's disgusted sneer. A gunshot in the living room while a battle rages outside.

They threaten to make me ill, and all I know is that I've already made the mistake twice.

I suddenly want to silence Kent. To stop the desperation pouring out of his mouth. Because to ask our father for a favor is to give your soul up for the taking. Your sanity. Your everything. Satan himself would have more mercy.

Father doesn't give him the benefit of a doubt, however.

" _Adam"_ , he interupts. Pulls him too close for comfort. Softens his voice in patient explanation.

He waits until he has Kent's full unguided attention; his dark blue eyes glued on Dad's face; before continuing.

"You know I can't do that", he tells him.

"Why not?", Kent asks in the smallest, most pitiful voice I've ever heard it in.

"Because you've been a very bad boy, Adam. You've been getting into all sorts of trouble, haven't you? Desertion. Hijacking a vehicle. Committing treason."

Kent's face falls. It's as if he is only now reminded of the fact that both he, and therefore James, are on the death list of the Reestablishment. _As if he had forgotten…_

"But don't worry, Addie", Father tells him.  
"Daddy's got all of that handled."

It only seems to break Kent even more. His tears start pouring with renewed strength. A barely audible ' _No no no…'_ escaping his lips between the hiccups.

Father hushes him, the smile still on his lips, and I watch how he (I'm unable to call it _tenderly_ ) guides Kent to rest his head on his shoulder; keeping it there with a hand running his fingers through the hair on the back of Kent's head.

"I know this isn't what you want", he assures him, in a voice pretending to be sympathetic.  
"You've been such a good big brother. But Daddy's going to take such good care of you and Jamie from now on."

I just sit on the bed. I feel like an outsider who is not supposed to witness this. The way father cuddles Kent is making me feel sick. _Why did you even ask me to come in here!?_ I want to ask. I feel like Father has just used me as a prop to trigger Kent.

But I remain where I am. Silent as father pets and coddles Kent with words that are supposed to be sweet and comforting.

I can't tell if it actually helps, with Kent blocking my ability, but after a few minutes Kent has managed to calm himself down. He sniffles and grossly wipes his nose with his sleeve before asking:  
" _Where is James?_ Is he okay?" He manages to surprise me. Because despite just having cried like a baby he forces his voice steady.

Father just smiles. He reaches out a hand and starts to card through Kent's brown hair. Kent's hair that is so much like Father's I realize.

"Addie, I would never hurt James", he says.

Kent startles at the pet name, but his resolve doesn't budge. His blue eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Father sighs. He had obviously wanted more time between the two of them. More time to introduce me. More time to coax Kent into this sick situation.

"Promise not to throw another fit?", Father asks him.

Kent frowns a little, probably from the choice of wording, but nods.

Father sighs again, but accepts it.  
"Good boy!" And Father leans in.

Perhaps I should have warned him. Poor Kent isn't prepared for this and looks as stupid as I must have done just the other night as father seals the deal with a kiss to his cheek.

It's over as soon as it happened though and Father puts Kent back on his feet before getting up himself. He flashes an excited smile at me that I immediately want to run away from.

"Let's go see our new baby, shall we?"

* * *

 **I realized Aaron doesn't actually do that much in this chapter, but I don't really care because I have almost the entire next chapter written out. And it has James x3**


End file.
